Intimacies

by Katie Kitamura

  At that moment, Anton and the blonde came staggering back into the dining room. He had one arm around her waist and she was leaning heavily into him, with no regard whatsoever for his physical condition. He bore her weight without complaint, his posture more erect than I had ever seen it. The blonde lowered her head demurely onto his shoulder and I saw that the skin at the back of her neck was flushed, her hair disheveled. As they passed, she reached down to adjust her skirt.

  I looked away, face hot. There was something grotesque and titillating about the entire scene, they must have gone to the bathroom for a quick fuck, propped against the wall of the bathroom. Or perhaps she had been kneeling on the floor blowing him as he leaned on the wall for support, perhaps she had been propped on the sink, her ass cradled in the basin. They looked, as they settled back into their chairs, smug and a little flushed, and also a little less interested in each other. The waiter soon arrived with their starters, and I thought I saw Anton exhale as he contemplated the plate before him. They had not even begun, they had their entire meal to get through before they could reasonably leave.

  The blond woman picked up her fork half-heartedly and sighed. Anton squeezed her hand, as if in commiseration. They were speaking in low tones and in Dutch, and I had no special desire to eavesdrop. And yet my ear seized upon fragments of their conversation, he’s back tomorrow and it’s a nice place and then better than Sampurna. The word Sampurna was familiar and I realized it was the name of a restaurant not far from Jana’s apartment, I had passed it several times and noted the sign without ever stopping to go in. I turned sharply to look at them. Anton was busy forking food into his mouth and the blonde was eating quickly. Relax, he said and even from across the restaurant I could hear the irritation in his voice. Nobody knows you here. I looked down instinctively, as if to hide my face. This woman was undoubtedly the reason Anton had been in Jana’s neighborhood, even perhaps the reason for his improbable reticence about the assault.

  I looked back up at their table, at their strange and unlikely pairing. I thought then of Miriam—Anton’s wife, who was once again absent, and who was being so carelessly betrayed in the dining room where I now sat. I thought of Eline, of how fondly she had spoken of Miriam, she had said she was like a mother to her children. But as I watched them eat their food—Anton had at last fallen silent, and the only sound from their table was the clink of china and cutlery—I realized it wasn’t the infidelity that was troubling me. No, what troubled me was the secrecy around it, these hidden undercurrents that remained undisclosed, even to the people who knew him best. I recalled his obvious unease when Eline asked him again whether he remembered anything about why he had gone to a neighborhood that was not his own, and where he would have no reason to travel, except for the one that was presently seated beside him in this restaurant on the other side of town.

  And I suddenly felt a shiver of fear—if Anton could not tell even Eline why he had been there, then wasn’t that because of Miriam? Wasn’t that because, despite the assaults he himself forced upon it, there was nonetheless something sacrosanct in the idea of his marriage, some illusion he could not bear to break, however divorced it might be from the reality that was in this restaurant now? That was the power of a marriage, and in that moment I thought of myself, of Adriaan and Gaby. Despite having moved out of the apartment, despite knowing better, I had still hoped—that I might yet hear from Adriaan, that he would return from Lisbon free and unencumbered, that I would move back into the apartment and accept the position at the Court that Bettina had just offered to me.

  But I knew at last that I needed to accept what was and had been obvious for a long time now. Adriaan would not be coming back to The Hague without Gaby. Their marriage had returned to life, the contract renewed. It was all exactly as Kees had said. Adriaan had gone to Portugal in order to save the marriage, in order for the children to grow up with both parents together in the same household, in order to win Gaby back. Perhaps he had deceived me from the start, or perhaps he hadn’t been aware of his own motivations at the time of his departure, when he had asked me to stay in the apartment and said those things to me. Perhaps it was only upon his arrival in Lisbon and his reunion with Gaby that, surprised by the depth of his own feeling, he had understood that he hadn’t meant what he had said to me, the invitation to stay, the keys on the counter, all of it a mistake.

  Is something the matter? Bettina asked. I shook my head, even as I realized that I was crying, that there were so many tears my vision had blurred.

  15.

  It was in this state of mind that I returned to Adriaan’s apartment. I wanted to retrieve the book that I had purchased at Anton’s shop, or at least that was what I told myself. I knew that it was not a good idea, and I knew that there were reasons other than the book for my return. But the impulse was too powerful to resist and I went early the next morning. I entered using the key that I still carried and that had never left the bottom of my bag. The housekeeper had been there since my departure and the apartment was pristine, what traces I had left behind—a smudge on the mirror, residue in the sink—had been carefully removed. I felt, as I moved through the rooms, transparent, as if the container of my skin had been removed. I sat down in the kitchen and ran my hands across the table. The force of recall was startling, I was reminded not of the weeks I had been here alone, but of the times I had been here with Adriaan, the times he had sat across from me at this table. I felt his presence there in the room with me like a trembling in the body.

  I was still sitting at the counter when I heard a key slide into the lock, the sound of the front door pushing open. For a moment I thought it might be Adriaan, but something in the manner of the movement at the door wasn’t correct and my brief elation turned almost immediately to concern. My entire body tensed, as if it were a burglar, someone making a forced entry. But in reality it was much worse, it was Adriaan’s wife. She came into the living room, wearing a long camel coat and carrying a large leather tote but otherwise empty-handed. She looked as if she were returning to the apartment from a meeting, although I did not think this could be the case given the early hour.

  She stopped when she saw me and for a long moment we stared at each other. She appeared exactly as she did in the photograph: improbably beautiful and also highly polished, as if she lived in continual expectation of being observed. By contrast, my hair was unwashed and my face bare of makeup. But even under better circumstances, even under ideal circumstances, I could never have competed with Adriaan’s wife. I was newly aware of the stain on my shirt. She frowned as she dropped her bag and shed her coat, as she made her way toward me, I felt as though I had been caught in the act—although precisely what that act was I did not know, I did not even know if Gaby knew who I was, or the nature of my relationship with her husband.

  She stopped before me, her face puzzled. Perhaps she was wondering why Adriaan had bothered to involve himself with me, or perhaps she was wondering who on earth I could be. Awkwardly, I rose to my feet and stood before her.

  We don’t know each other, she said at last. I’m Gaby.

  Yes, I said stupidly.

  You’re Adriaan’s friend, she said. You’ve been looking after the apartment. Her voice was bright and a little hard, from which it was clear that friend was a euphemism, and that she understood well enough what I was. She paused and looked around the room. The place looks uninhabited, has everything been okay?

  I still hadn’t told Adriaan that I had left the apartment. I didn’t disabuse her of her logical misapprehension and instead nodded. Her manner was not openly hostile, it was studiously neutral. Have you had a coffee? she abruptly asked. She didn’t wait for a reply before she moved past me and to the cabinets, she took out two cups. What would you like? Cappuccino? Americano? I said that I would take an Americano, and she nodded and turned back to the machine. I couldn’t help but feel that she occupied the space with quiet aggression, that this preparation of coffee
was in some way performative, designed to remind me who the true owner of the apartment was.

  But of that there could be no question. She handed me my coffee and I took a sip cautiously, as if the cup might be poisoned. I was not the only one feeling wary, she also regarded me with a certain amount of caution, as if I were an unknown and unformed quantity, someone whose presence in her life might suddenly grow volatile. I saw that the encounter was as complicated for her as it was for me, maybe even more so, and I was both astonished and ashamed that I hadn’t the imagination to see it earlier, all those times I had spent speculating about this woman.

  Still, it did not make me feel any more warmly toward her, and I saw that this too was mutual. She smiled, her expression at once brittle and dazzling. I apologize for dropping in like this, she said, although she did not sound sorry in the least. Did Adriaan warn you? I shook my head, mouth dry. He can be so bad about administrative matters, she murmured, as if the matter of our relationship, mine and Adriaan’s, had simply been a question of organization and management. Or perhaps she had meant for the comment to be conspiratorial, two women discussing the foibles of a shared man. I stood before her, uncertain of what she was trying to tell me.

  She turned and went to the sink. Everyone will be coming back in a week, she announced over her shoulder as she poured her coffee down the drain. Adriaan, the children as well. She turned to face me and crossed her arms. It was not clear what she meant by everyone, whether that included her, whether that implied a reunion of the family. And you? I asked. I looked her in the face, I had nothing really to lose. She shook her head and looked up at the clock. She picked up her bag. I have a meeting in Rotterdam, she said. And although this was no kind of answer, although the way she had shaken her head was completely ambiguous, I nodded.

  She went to the desk in the sitting room and opened a drawer, pushing through papers and notebooks, life roughage I had never before seen or dared go through. She frowned as she gathered a pile of documents together and placed them in her bag before shoving the drawer closed again. She retrieved her coat, which she had thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa, and moved in the direction of the front door. What should I do with the keys? I asked. She turned to look at me. Through all the beauty, I saw a glint of cruelty in her eyes. She looked around the apartment, she gave a little shrug. Keep them, I suppose. It makes no difference to me. And without waiting for a response, she turned and left, the door slamming shut behind her.

  * * *

  —

  I did as she said. I returned the keys to my bag and I left the apartment. As I rode the tram across town, it was as if a boulder had dropped into the middle of my mind. In part it was Gaby, she made it difficult to think, she ate up the air around her, and I wondered how Adriaan had lived with her for so long. But it was not really this, or not only this. It was the fact of Adriaan’s return. What was its meaning, and why had I not heard of it directly from him? My mind circled back to Gaby’s words, had there been an edge of defeat to her voice when she said the children as well, as if that were a battle she had lost, custody of the children? Or was it resignation, over the life she had forsaken in Lisbon, the choice she had made to return?

  I stared through the window of the tram, speckled with dust and droplets of water. I was due to meet Eline for lunch, I had not seen her since the dinner with Anton. I thought uneasily of my encounter with him the previous day, and I wondered what obligation I was under to tell Eline of it. But almost as soon as I arrived at the café, almost before we sat down at our table, Eline said, Anton said he ran into you yesterday. Her voice was bright and I saw that she was braced for the worst. She looked at me cautiously, her manner at once solicitous and wary. It dawned on me that she believed her brother had or was in the process of seducing me. As she waited for me to reply, her mouth tightening with apprehension, I saw that she had been in this situation before, she was only trying to judge how bad the fallout might be this time around.

  Yes, I said. Although I don’t think he saw me, he was somewhat preoccupied. She blinked. I could see her recalibrating her thoughts, the parameters of the situation shifting before her. He was with a woman, I said reluctantly.

  Oh, she said.

  I don’t know the nature of their meeting, I said.

  She leaned back and the air seemed suddenly charged with the added distance between us. Are they sleeping together? Her voice was brittle, she seemed almost another person. It doesn’t matter, she continued without waiting for a reply. I’ve often thought it was a woman that brought Anton to that neighborhood. She paused. Was she an escort? Anton likes prostitutes, he’s used them before. Her voice was too casual, as if she were speaking of a car or cleaning service, and some part of me recoiled.

  No, I said. No. They were—they liked each other.

  But what was she like?

  I shook my head. I couldn’t really describe her.

  She stared at me for a long moment, then nodded. Something about this whole thing has been wrong from the start, she said. I don’t believe Anton when he says he doesn’t remember anything about the assault. I know my brother well and I know when he is lying. But why wouldn’t he just tell me? Infidelity isn’t especially shocking, and it’s not as if I would tell Miriam, it’s not as if— She stopped. He should know that he can trust me.

  Perhaps he feels embarrassed or ashamed, I said. I recalled his words in the restaurant. Relax. Nobody knows you here. Or perhaps the woman is married, I continued, and there are other reasons why he can’t involve the police. Perhaps it would expose her in some way.

  Eline shook her head, and then gave a short laugh. He has the luck of the devil, Anton. The police haven’t a clue. Not a single lead. If he’s keeping quiet about something, he’ll get away with it. There’s no evidence, there’s nothing, in all the footage from that day. It’s as if the assailant never existed. She paused. He loves Miriam, you know. But it is hard to ask her to keep accepting the terms of his love.

  Her voice was ruminative, and I knew that she was speaking to herself rather than me. I wondered to what degree she believed the assault had been invented out of whole cloth, another one of Anton’s stories. If so, it was a particularly dangerous one, the police would have looked to the public housing block for suspects, there would have been interrogations and more. Consequences that extended far beyond the confines of Anton’s and Eline’s lives. Perhaps something in my gaze betrayed my thoughts because she suddenly seemed embarrassed. We didn’t know each other well enough for these disclosures to bring us closer together, we had exposed ourselves in the wrong way, at the wrong time.

  I had the feeling that I would not see her again. I realized it had been some weeks since I had spoken to Jana. I really was quite alone. Perhaps because of this, as we stood to go I asked, There was really nothing, in all those hours of footage? For a moment she wavered, she seemed to understand what she was saying about her brother. Then she shook her head. Nothing. Not so much as a ghost.

  16.

  One week later, the trial of the former president was put on hold. The presiding judge ordered the prosecutor to provide a brief, outlining how the testimonies and evidence submitted to the Court supported the charges against the accused. The order represented a sea change within the trial; the defense was succeeding in unforeseen ways. I was called into a final meeting with the former president. Despite the potential collapse of the prosecutor’s case, I was still unprepared for the atmosphere of strange excitation in the conference room when I arrived at the Detention Center. The former president, as soon as I entered, looked at me with an expression of triumph, he nodded to the chair beside him and told me to sit down. Only two members of his team were there, the scene had a last-day-of-school feel to it. I reached for a pad and paper, there were a handful of phrases that they wanted to check in the testimony of the last witness, the lawyer explained, would I oblige them.

  From the start, the
former president made little pretense of following the conversation, and it wasn’t long before he exclaimed, But none of this matters, none of this matters any longer. His manner was petulant, as it always was when he was confronted with the articulation of his crimes. The lawyer looked at him from across the table and then asked if he would like to take a break. The former president shrugged, his defense team had done an extraordinary job for him, and yet, even as the possible end of the trial drew near, his contempt for them seemed to grow, he could already see ahead to the time when he would no longer need them.

  If you need a break, then of course, the former president said. The lawyer wearily rose to his feet. Would you like anything? he asked me, and I shook my head. He left the room, although the junior associate remained. The former president turned to me. I apologize for my colleague, he said loftily. It has been a long trial, very tiring for all of us. He spoke as if he himself were part of the defense team, I supposed in some respects that was true. The president seemed to notice my unease. An expression of dissatisfaction settled onto his face. Is anything wrong? he asked. I shook my head. But yes, he said, there is something wrong. I turned reluctantly. He was watching me, his expression kindly, even concerned. He studied my face for a long moment, then gave a wry smile.

  Ah, he said. I see. You think I am a bad person. Despite the fact that the case against me will—it now seems almost certainly—be thrown out. You know, my lawyers tell me I may be released in a matter of weeks. I will soon be a free man. He paused. And yet these false accusations and false testimonies have poisoned your mind against me. He held up a hand. Don’t apologize, he said. Although I wasn’t going to. This little theater here at the Court can warp even the clearest minds. I stared straight ahead, body immobile.